Reverse Peristalsis

Gabe Kaplan vs. Robert Conrad

dreaddespair — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 18:59:20 GMT

The year is 1976. The show: Battle of the Network Stars. Gabe Kaplan ("Welcome Back Kotter") and Robert Conrad ("Baa Baa Blacksheep") settle a dispute with a 100 yard dash. There were two reasons I loved this show as a prepubescent: the larger-than-life charisma of host Howard Cosell who, as far as I'm concerned, was a human-sized muppet -- and any chance to see Lynda Carter run. You know, not many words can instantly bring a lump to my throat but Lynda Carter are two of them. Anyway, I digress. The clip you'll find below is one of the many reasons I worship at the YouTube alter. Also, as one still struggling to kick the habit, it's enormously amusing to watch beloved TV stars from my childhood smoke between events. Some of them are downright sneaky about it. Enjoy! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqWU9huMMco

Why Quitting is Hard (Second Try)

dreaddespair — Sat, 08 Dec 2007 23:04:12 GMT

Quitting is Hard

dreaddespair — Sat, 08 Dec 2007 01:42:54 GMT

Hardcore smoker gets lockjaw from chomping on Nicorette gum. Film at 11.

dreaddespair — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 16:09:43 GMT

6 days, 23 hours, 21 minutes and 15 seconds smoke free. 209 cigarettes not smoked. $52.50 and 1 day, 14 hours of your life saved. Your quit date: 11/21/2007 11:45:00 AM

My Brown Eyed Girl

dreaddespair — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 22:58:09 GMT

All About Phoebe (7 out of 7)

dreaddespair — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 23:31:49 GMT

A couple of weeks ago, my five year old nephew came to visit. Somehow, Phoebe survived.

All About Phoebe (6 out of 7)

dreaddespair — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 23:30:50 GMT

She doesn't like strangers that suddenly emerge out of the shadows, either. But who does?

All About Phoebe (5 out of 7)

dreaddespair — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 23:29:33 GMT

Phoebe is easily frightened by loud, sudden noises like doors slamming and power tools. Other things that frighten her include foreign objects that weren't there the day before.

All About Phoebe (4 out of 7)

dreaddespair — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 23:26:46 GMT

Phoebe loves other dogs so last week we took her to the dog park for the first time. She was initially apprehensive and kept running for the exit but after about ten minutes she got with the program and had a blast.

All About Phoebe (3 out of 7)

dreaddespair — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 23:23:39 GMT

Phoebe's crate trained but she isn't house trained. Here, she pees on the carpet with unabashed glee. We're kind of thinking if we can get through this thing without emotionally scarring the dog, we may be up for parenthood after all.

All About Phoebe (2 out of 7)

dreaddespair — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 23:21:39 GMT

We were supposed to take Piper for a preliminary five day visit but on the day this was supposed to happen, Piper had yet to recover from an upper respiratory infection. So we took Phoebe instead, sort of like a canine understudy or a stunt dog even. And then the funniest thing happened. We fell in love with that silly mutt. Incidentally, if Melany and I ever turn up missing, just give Phoebe a sock to sniff. She may not track us down, but she sure loves running around with socks and underwear in her mouth.

All About Phoebe (1 out of 7)

dreaddespair — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 23:16:40 GMT

So after a couple of false turns with two other dogs, we met two puppy sisters named Phoebe and Piper. I dubbed them the Pointer Sisters on account of their foster person describing them to us as pointer/beagle mixes. We met the Pointer Sisters in a deserted public park on a weekday afternoon. It felt like some kind of clandestine drug deal. After about a half hour, we both felt partial to the calmer Piper.

About a Dog

dreaddespair — Tue, 25 Sep 2007 15:26:07 GMT

So I'm on my way home from the movies with a couple of other kids and I see this dog beeline out of a butcher shop. Chasing the dog is a butcher straight out of central casting: mustachioed and pudgy with a double-chin, blubbery arms matted with coarse hair, blood-smeared smock, the whole shebang. Best of all, he's wielding a meat cleaver like he means business. Naturally, I insinuate myself between the dog and the butcher and flail my arms. Now, in another country I might have been dragged off for trying to steal the butcher's prime source of meat but in Flushing, Queens it was safe to assume that a hungry stray followed some savory aroma vapors into a butcher shop hoping for a hand-out...only it didn't work out so well. The butcher lowers his weapon, mutters something under his breath and slinks back into his shop. The dog and I look at each other. He's the craziest looking dog. His coat changes colors where the neck meets the body creating the effect of a German Shepherd head sewed onto the body of a Pointer. Then the dog follows me home. Well, to be fair, there was coaxing involved. Long story short, I show up at our apartment with a 40 pound stray dog. Mom has conniptions and Dad, well, he's on our co-op's board of directors and since we live in a no-dog building there's no way I'm going to be allowed to keep this dog. Nevertheless, my parents agree to let me harbor this canine fugitive until we can find him a good home. In the meantime, I name him Pepper. At the ripe old age of 13, I've only had pets with extremely brief life spans. Fish, turtles, hamsters. Not the most affectionate or trainable of housepets. You can't for example train a turtle to fetch or play dead. When a turtle plays dead, it usually means that he really is. I don't know how or why, but Pepper and I bond like nobody's business. He sits by my feet during dinner. Waits outside the bathroom until I'm finished. Trots by my side when we go for walks. Sometimes I duck behind a tree and hide. Pepper goes ballistic trying to find me. I pop out and yell "Surprise!" and that goofy-looking pooch is so glad to see me. Nobody's ever been that glad to see me. Never. Our love story is like something out of a tragic movie you see as a kid that scars you for life like The Yearling or Old Yeller or Bambi. Pepper and I were a star-crossed boy and his dog. Our cousins who lied on Long Island agree to take Pepper off our hands. This is good and bad news. On the plus side, this would keep Pepper in the family. On the other hand, he'd no longer be mine and most of all I worried he'd no longer be so glad to see me. My cousin Carol renames the dog Dee which is like an ice pick in my heart. Unfortunately, Pepper Now Dee doesn't get along with the resident cat. Pepper is sequestered to the basement where he starts howling in protest and wreaking havoc. Now, the cousins can't keep Pepper Now Dee either. I'm told that Pepper Now Dee was taken to North Shore Animal League, a no-kill animal shelter, and that he got car sick on the way and puked on Mom's lap. I hope they found him a good home. Because Pepper Now Dee was a great dog and even though we only had a short week together, I've never forgotten him. I loved him. So now it's 30 years later and I'm finally in a position to have a dog. This is like...a really Big Deal to me. If I can find the stamina and focus, I'll let you know how our search has gone so far.

We keep our attention focused on our inward movement

dreaddespair — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 15:55:08 GMT

The illusion of movement is crucial to the spinning of my creaking itches. When I itch, I am, but the itchless state of banging in the walls is to be avoided. Can you hear the droplets of confusion slipping in my mouth? How do you scratch the itches that itch behind your eyes? There's a woman only a few feet away with the scrawling and the buttery way of slithering up the walls. She is movement, she is the glitter in my oatmeal. I need her, must, please, in my throat. I feel her in my teeth, I bake her in my bread, she is the seed on the toast, she is the powder on my nipples. She is the music in the horror movie, the tower of bubble, the quibble of Sybil, the rat in the hat, the lullabye of leaning daisies on a field trip to the post office of yesterday's wedding of words. She's the cat on the fence, the stillness of ballet, the water on my lips. We keep our attention focused on our inward movement. It spirals like strands of tinsel, like leis of flowers tossed into the salty wind. And I break, I snap, my itchy bones split like twigs and we're in the depths of woods where blankets of fog cover wild mushrooms and beneath the caps is everything -- screw them off and peer into the dead eye of God and his staff of alcoholic writers. It's all about the ooze in the booze, the huff in the stuff. Take a puff. Live on me. Creep, crawl, slither into me. Make a hole, find the hole, manhole, the snaking tunnels of inward movement, the labyrinth of lies and stories and bad poetry and all the unspoken sugar. What a turn for the purse, you toothless wolf. You're all bark and no tree. -- February 18, 2000

Possum Tripping

dreaddespair — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 22:19:12 GMT

So last night at around 2AM I stepped out for a ciggy and nearly Dick Van Dyked over a possum. No, for real. At first I thought it was the cat. It felt like the cat. Furry and warm against my flip-flopped foot. But no. Wrong hue of gray. A possum it was. Possum sightings aren't an especially big deal in Texas unless, perhaps, you're a transplanted New Yorker who consumes copious amounts of Animal Planet. As a regular viewer of that channel, I've seen footage of cornered possums getting vicious. They bear their pearly whites and hiss like Satan's spawn. So, on realizing that I’d literally brushed up against a possum, I hummed out a muffled squeal...and then ran for it. I noticed it wasn't chasing me. I had survived our encounter without getting bitten and there was no need to rush to the emergency room for a rabies shot. I moseyed back to my smoking spot and observed the possum from a respectful distance. The possum looked about as stunned as I did. It was mid-sized for a possum yet large enough to be worshipped as Ratzilla among average-sized New York City subway rats. Rat sightings are hardly unusual in Manhattan. I nearly stepped on a rat in Tribeca once and a few years ago a rat ran over my foot in the kitchen of a friend who lived near Columbia University. This possum encounter has forever changed me. For one, I no longer bolt out the door for a smoke. I lean out of the open door first and look both ways before stepping out. Who knows. Next time I could trip over an armadillo or a tarantula or an unemployed former president.

Stormy Weather

dreaddespair — Fri, 11 May 2007 19:00:03 GMT

Even when a full-blown lightning storm strobes the Manhattan skyline, it looks more like a choreographed effect courtesy of Industrial Light and Magic than nature unleashing her full fury. Storms in Houston are altogether different. They're epic and eerie and wrathful. They blow in with rumors of destructive hail, killer tornados and flash floods. Very biblical stuff. It makes me wonder if weather has anything to do with why certain parts of America seem more religious than others.

My friend

dreaddespair — Wed, 27 Sep 2006 09:27:41 GMT

Back in New York City we have convenience stores commonly called bodegas. Often, the proprietor greets you with a grin and a "How are you today, my friend?" Bodega Guy interjects "my friend" the way another person might use "man" or "dude" or "buddy boy", "pal" and even "baby" (or, if you happen to be my father, "chief"). So in this case, the phrase "my friend" certainly isn't literal. You both know you're not actual friends but he calls you his friend anyway and you go with it. I used to pay daily visits to one such bodega when I lived in Astoria, Queens (which is incidentally the birthplace of singer Tony Bennett and also -- a lesser know fact -- Patrick "Secret Agent Man/The Prisoner/frequent guest murderer on Columbo" McGoohan). In 1996 I moved to Manhattan. I was glad to leave Queens because I lived rather uncomfortably in an apartment directly over my cranky old landlady Maria. Maria and I got along swimmingly when I first moved in. She offered me plates of homemade ravioli made from scratch (like nothing I ever tasted) and sometimes even tomatoes fresh from her garden (which made all other tomatoes before and since pale in comparison). But after her husband died, Maria turned mean and ornery. Always pissed off and anxious to tell me about it. No matter how surreptitiously I tried to leave the building without running into her, Maria appeared at the very last moment and cornered me in the vestibule with her latest list of complaints. I was convinced that Maria hid under the stairs like the troll waited for the billygoats, and that scolding me in broken english was the highlight of her day. According to Maria, I stomped too loudly and kept odd hours and deliberately disfigured the faux marble hallway -- damages which could never be properly repaired because the artisan who installed it died years ago and his secret for faux marble tiling went with him. Lastly, when in the hell was I going to put down some carpet to muffle my maniacal stomping so Maria could make her beautiful hand-made ravioli in peace? I patiently and politely listened to Maria's grievances as I imagined impaling her on my billygoat horns. I'll always miss Maria's delicious ravioli but I was relieved to finally escape her trolldom. My apartment in Manhattan was much smaller but you couldn't beat the location. In Manhattan, my landlady was a corporation and our interaction was limited to the occasional rent demand and eviction notice. A mere bag of shells compared to those screaming matches in the vestibule with that ugly old troll and her hairy facial warts. Eight years after moving to Manhattan I hailed a cab and, like always, met the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror as I stated my destination. The cabbie greeted me with enthusiastic familiarity. "How are you, my friend!?" he grinned. He knew me but for the life of me I couldn't place him. I immediately felt embarrassed and ashamed. I have trouble remembering names and faces and assume nobody remembers me in turn but I'm only right half the time and good luck guessing which is which. Sometimes I'll recognize a person's face but forget his name and duck into an alley just to avoid confronting the part I forgot. Once, while I was waiting on line at Essa Bagels one Sunday morning, I spotted the guy who wrote a play I acted in years before. But there was a distinct possibility it was his twin brother who acted in a play I once wrote. I wasn't sure which twin was which so I just stared at my feet the whole time, hoping he wouldn't notice me. But what if he did notice me, and believed I was deliberately ignoring him out of some previously unspoken contempt? Oh, the horror. It turned out that the cabbie was the same guy I used to buy cigarettes from almost every day for three years at the bodega on Broadway in Astoria. That was eight years ago. And he remembered me. He even remembered my cigarette brand, the woman I was with back then, the kind of muffin she liked to buy in the morning and even the color of her hair. I never would have placed this guy had he not recognized me first -- probably because I looked at him every day when I bought my smokes but didn't really see him. And I'll be damned if I wasn't tickled to be in his cab and play catch-up. It turned out he and his brother gave up the shop after one too many robberies and were driving cabs to save money for a limousine business they hoped to launch. When I wished him the best with his plan I really meant it. Why I was so glad to see him again after all those years and in an unexpected context I can't really say. Maybe it's just nice to be remembered.

Bukowski: Born into This

dreaddespair — Sun, 17 Sep 2006 07:43:27 GMT

Rewatched the Bukowski documentary on Showtime-on-demand and this poem in particular took my breath away: The Genius Of The Crowd Charles Bukowski there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day and the best at murder are those who preach against it and the best at hate are those who preach love and the best at war finally are those who preach peace those who preach god, need god those who preach peace do not have peace those who preach peace do not have love beware the preachers beware the knowers beware those who are always reading books beware those who either detest poverty or are proud of it beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone beware the average man the average woman beware their love, their love is average seeks average but there is genius in their hatred there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you to kill anybody not wanting solitude not understanding solitude they will attempt to destroy anything that differs from their own not being able to create art they will not understand art they will consider their failure as creators only as a failure of the world not being able to love fully they will believe your love incomplete and then they will hate you and their hatred will be perfect like a shining diamond like a knife like a mountain like a tiger like hemlock their finest art

Our lives as super heroes

dreaddespair — Sat, 19 Aug 2006 17:31:07 GMT

Early in our relationship I joked to my girlfriend that if we were super heroes she'd be Action Girl (because she attacks problems by lunging into action mode) and I'd be Glacier Boy (because I think everything to death and move at glacier speed)...and that "normal" was probably somewhere in the middle. A week ago I started conceiving a comic book designed to be a thinly-veiled allegory about the trials and tribulations of a super hero couple that meets on the Internet, begins a long-distance relationship and moves in together. So far, it's provided a desperately-needed outlet for the frustration I've been feeling as we struggle to love and understand each other despite our massive fears, psychic wounds and emotional baggage. I'm all about projects. If I don't have one my energy turns inward and eats away at my insides like an insatiable tapeworm. Since I moved to Houston almost four months ago I've done nothing but think and worry and angst and second-guess myself. Angsting alone leaves me empty. Channeling that angst into a project at least gives me a silly comic book.

Wall of Doubt

dreaddespair — Sun, 13 Aug 2006 06:43:37 GMT

Four months ago I wrapped up a 2-plus year gig as head writer and story editor for a low-budge animated series. A couple of weeks later I moved from New York City to Houston, Texas to give it a go with my long-distance girlfriend. It's been a bumpy ride to say the least. Aside from wanting to give the relationship a shot, I hoped a more affordable city like Houston would be the perfect locale to begin recovery from 12 demoralizing years of writing for low-budget direct-to-video animation. Now it's time to work on some projects that really excite me and in doing so hopefully rekindle the joy of storytelling. The first project I hope to attack is a screenplay adaptation of one of my favorite novels. The desire to write this one has simmered on the back burner for 20 years. That's about how long ago I read the novel and had that eureka moment: "This would make a great movie!" At the time I had some experience as a produced playwright but I didn't know the first thing about screenwriting and the only book I read on the subject was William Goldman's "Adventures in the Screentrade". Hopefully, I've learned a thing or two since then. I guess we'll see. I begin every project with a grumbling voice that says: this is impossible, you're in over your head, you don't have the skills, give up now! Inch by inch I crack through that wall of doubt and then get to work. By now I've learned to expect and to some degree accept the wall of doubt as part of my process, even though I acknowledge that it's an enormous waste of time and energy. Still, I'm psyched because the bottom line is that I love love love this story. One of my early mentors told me, "write the play you want to see" and this story truly fills that bill. It touches on the kind of themes that most excite me like how we become our worst enemies and deny ourselves happiness by creating self-fulfilling prophecies. Man, I love a good old fashioned protagonist with inner conflicts and a dark secret. Can't wait to tear down that wall of doubt and sink my teeth into this one.

And speaking of Sisyphus...

dreaddespair — Sat, 05 Aug 2006 19:59:26 GMT

Here's some food for thought... In "Word Freak: Heartbreak, Triumph, Genius, and Obsession in the World of Competitve SCRABBLE Players", Stefan Fatsis writes: "Camus argued that while the rock-rolling might have sucked, it was liberating. Sisyphus had been king of Corinth, but he served at Zeus's will. By defying Zeus -- Sisyphus complained when Zeus made off with the maiden Aegina -- Sisyphus unbound himself from his earthly servitude. Every time he walked down the mountain to roll the rock back up, he was free -- free to think and free to be himself, opportunities denied in his temporal life." Wow, did this passage ever hit home. A few months ago I wrapped up a long and arduous writing/story editing gig on a low-budget animated series. In the eyes of people like my father, earning a living at my chosen profession gave me credibility as a writer. But it was only the illusion of legitimacy. The paycheck didn't make me a better writer or guarantee circumstances under which I could do my best work. Yeah, cashing that paycheck feels good but is it as important as feeling proud of my work? Not for me. It's confusing because I grew up believing in certain uniquely American ideals -- you can do anything if you put your mind to it. Success is finding a way to do what you love the most. When I first started earning income as a writer, of course I felt like a lucky bastard. A real lottery winner. Especially in this world of heartbroken, unrequited dreamers. 12 years later, my resume is cluttered with writing credits I'm too embarrassed to mention in the light of day because I never thought to consider what's more important: having a gig or the nature of the gig. I know people in the biz who've walked away from much better gigs than I've ever had. The difference is that they don't need the money. Me, I'm a real hand-to-mouth creature who's always a couple of paychecks away from homelessness. Which brings me back to Camus' take on Sisyphus by way of Stefan Fatsis in his book about Scrabble fanatics. When my last animation gig ended, I decided to walk away from animation writing. I took on a regular survival job with health benefits hoping to spend my free time writing about things that interest me. But my survival job gets to me sometimes. It feels like a fear factor endurance test -- how long can I go on like this? I survive one workweek without telling someone off and getting my ass fired and two short days later it starts all over again. I know how Sisyphus feels. Believe me. It's easy to feel frustrated and bitter and lose sight of the big picture. It's easy to feel that my life has become a trap between two terrible choices. But the Fatsis/Camus quote reminded me that as much as I hate my survival job, it serves a crucial function. It frees me from servitude to the Zeus that signed my writing paycheck, that strangled me in a creative straitjacket, that kept me from working at the best of my ability. I don't have to write for that guy anymore. I can write for myself now. Maybe that freedom is worth the price. But it's also kind of terrifying.

When He's 64

dreaddespair — Mon, 19 Jun 2006 02:55:41 GMT

Happy birthday, Paul. You made it!

Zippy comebacks by way of time travel

dreaddespair — Tue, 13 Jun 2006 22:01:55 GMT

If I had to single out a work of literature that had the most profound effect on my young mind, it would undoubtedly be "Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions" by Mad Magazine's Al Jaffee. A recent check with Amazon indicates 30 million different installments to the Snappy Answers series which first appeared in the late 60s. On a typical page from the book, you'll see a cartoon of a guy brushing his teeth. Someone asks, "Are you brushing your teeth?" Guy replies, "No, I'm wiping my ass but I'm taking the scenic route" followed by a bunch of other snarky comebacks. Why did I find that crap so funny? Maybe because I get so easily flustered and tongue-tied in the moment. I can only think up the golden zinger hours and sometimes even days after the opportunity passes. Years ago, there was a great Saturday Night Live sketch in which Northern Exposure's Rob Morrow is hanging out with a couple of friends at a restaurant but he's always a couple of beats behind the conversation. He finds a time machine in the bathroom and returns to earlier in the conversation. This time, our boy's right on the money and has everyone in stitches. When my girlfriend visited last week she left her dog Huckleberry with me. (FYI: Huckleberry is named after the Mark Twain character, not the blue Hanna Barbera hound who sings "My Darling Clementine".) There's been a big void in my life ever since my cat Loretta died two Januarys ago. I held Loretta in my arms while she was euthanized. It was the least I could do after 17 years together. I figured Loretta had ruined me for cats so it was time to get a dog. After her death I frequently consulted PetFinder, the personals for pets. But something told me to wait. Was I waiting for...Huck? Huck is a sweet enough dog but a little dim. She doesn't play ball or fetch or anything. She just lazes around like a chubby strawberry-blonde ewok. Oh, and she has a sinus condition that makes her snore like a pig. It's been just me and Huck since last Thursday and despite my best efforts, she's growing on me. I'm trying all these tricks I learned from Cesar Milan's "The Dog Whisperer" series on National Geographic Channel and it appears that Huck finally recognizes me as pack leader. At least, she keeps shooting me all these meaningful looks. I'm pretty fanatical about picking up after Huck during our walks, and always carry a little baggy in my pocket to do the dirty deed. Yesterday, as I'm walking Huck up the block some guy with a comb-over makes a hard turn into his driveway and nearly rips off the back of my shirt in the process. "Hey asshole, where's your pooper scooper?!" he screams at me. I'm stunned. I lived in New York all my life. No stranger ever yelled at me. Not even the two guys that mugged me in that subway station when I was 20. I had to move to Houston to be verbally assaulted by some guy that sounds like Gomer Pyle. I show the guy the baggy in my pocket like he's the high school dean asking for my hall pass. A beat later, I get all indignant and stammer out something really lame like, "Well, muh-maybe *you* shouldn't be such an asshole!" Hours later, I think of snappier comments I might have made: A. Hey Gomer, *you* need a pooper scooper to pick up the shit just crawled outta your potty mouth. B. I forgot my pooper scooper today but I'll gladly rip off your head so my dog can crap down your throat. C. What's with the comb-over, dude? Do you really think you're fooling anyone? D. Sorry, Robert Redford, not even for a million dollars. My dog's standards are just too high. E. Insert yours here.

About My 8 Things

dreaddespair — Sun, 11 Jun 2006 20:15:52 GMT

Euphoria's 8 Things List reminded me of my biggest, darkest secret. I really like pedicures! A few years ago, this woman I was seeing dragged me along to her appointment at the nail salon. As long as I was there, she offered to treat me to a manny and a peddy. Well, the manny made me feel too much like a metrosexual BUT I gotta say that having a kneeling woman tend to my feet with a cheese grater made me feel downright kingly! Please, my feminist friends, forgive me. I know it's wrong but that's how I felt. Also, my feet get badly calloused because I apparently walk on them the wrong way, so it was nice to have them revitalized by an expert. I'm too proud to visit a salon solo, but if my dear girlfriend should agree to enact a charade in which she pretends to "drag" me along for a pedicure, I'd be ever so grateful. Now, *where* do I put the alligator puppet? Did I mention that he has a blue beret and I make him talk in a bad French accent? Maybe he can live with the pirate puppet. Also, does anyone know how to wash 25 years of cigarette smoke out of a puppet?

8 Things You Don't Want to Know About Me

dreaddespair — Fri, 09 Jun 2006 20:50:40 GMT

RULES - Once you've been tagged, you have to write a blog with 8 facts/things/habits about yourself, saying who tagged you. In the end you need to choose the 6 people to be tagged and list their names. No tag backs. Queenie tagged me! 1. I spend way too much time playing Boggle and Scrabble online. 2. I force myself to keep up with current events but when I read or watch the news, my worst suspicions about human nature are always confirmed and I become morbidly depressed. 3. Sometimes when I'm walking down the street, I pretend to be an android. It makes me laugh. 4. I never outgrew my Beatles phase even though it's kind of embarrassing to be 42 and own this much Beatles paraphernalia. Also, I kind of wish I could stop telling the story about how I followed John and Yoko down the street when I was 14 and how Lennon waved me off and said "bye bye now". But I can't, I just can't stop telling that story. 5. I get painfully shy around people I don't know which is probably why I'd rather get recircumsized than go to parties. 6. I don't miss New York as much as I thought I would, but I miss my friend Thumper so hard it hurts. 7. My most significant goal is to not be like my father but I fear that I am already just as bitter, cynical, self righteous, stubborn, and vindictive as he is. I continually struggle against these aspects of my nature. 8. As I was packing all my crap for the move from NYC to Houston, I came across many relics from my childhood that I kept for no good reason. I tried to throw away a lot of this stuff out but couldn't. I tossed this moth-eaten green alligator puppet in the trash but then quickly plucked him out and actually apologized to him. Nari, Obsidia, Kimpulsive, Spawn, Amber, kat hemrich